


Lashings

by SweetBirdi



Category: League of Legends
Genre: F/M, M/M, gangplank and illaoi are exes and GP is bitter about it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-08-24 13:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8374264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetBirdi/pseuds/SweetBirdi
Summary: The Pirate King doesn't take too kindly to a specific -- and familiar -- stowaway. Based on the AU for my other fic To Follow.





	1. Caught.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry fam but yknow I gotta do what I gotta do.  
> And what I gotta do is hurt TF mercilessly.

Gangplank despises stowaways. Possibly more than he hates losing, more than he hates being belittled. But what makes it worse is that blasted stowaway, that  _ wharf rat, _ was caught canoodling with one of his own men. One of his men had slammed a hand upon the thick door of his cabin, and though he flinched when Gangplank snapped at him for making such a ruckus, he did not cower when he relayed the news of a younger man with braids seen walking with their cabin boy. Aching for a relief to his rage and pain over his broken heart, but unwilling to admit this to himself or others, he stormed past the crewmate and towards the bow of the ship The stowaway is kneeling, forced down by the hands of other crew members, with the cabin boy located near the back of the crowd. Gangplank all but forgot the look upon his face — Malcolm, his name was. Preferred to be called Graves. — an unmistakable look of a stubborn man caught doing something he wasn’t meant to do. Gangplank stares at him for a while before returning to the subject at hand. In the chilly wind of the evening, Gangplank stands tall towards his captive, allowing the breeze to whip his cap and coat back with snaps of leather and fabric. 

“And who d’we got here, boys?” He asks, stepping slowly towards the boy. “A stowaway? Tryin’ to steal me gold? Or perhaps the Dead Pool herself, or maybe the trust of my crew…”

The mind games do not affect the boy, who keeps his head bowed in defiance. Gangplank sneers and motions for the crew to lift him, and they willingly oblige. One grabs him by the shoulders and the other grabs him by the hair — a fistfull of dark braids, decorated with gold beads and green clasps. It’s seeing those before seeing the actual child’s face that makes him realize just  _ who _ this was. The anger, the hunger for an outlet, the pain — it all rushes forth with a roar in his chest, his leather gloves crinkling in his fist, his teeth creaking with the force of his scowl.

Twisted Fate. The bastard child of Illaoi. His growl translates into words;

“It’s good t’see you again,  _ lad. _ ” 

Twisted Fate’s eyes do not betray anything but anger and spite, and it’s not the first time Gangplank believes he’s looking into the face of a viper. A harsh, cold laugh rolls out of Gangplank — it sends chills through his crew, he can see their expressions change in his periphery, and that only makes him laugh  _ louder. _ The only one who doesn’t emote this is Twisted Fate, who has not budged in his raw aggression. It’s too perfect,  _ far _ too perfect. Gangplank paces before his crew and the pond scum with a malicious smile lined by a hand stroking his beard in thought. There was no better way to relieve this pain, this agony of losing the love of his life, this  _ bitterness _ he feels towards Illaoi’s religion. It was the Mother Below’s preaching to continue moving forward, and it is for that reason Illaoi no longer desired to be with him. And it was this brat, this child, this—  _ dog,  _ who so dared to disrespect him, undermine his power around Illaoi. He never liked this boy, but now? He found himself upon the Dead Pool, with his cabin boy… 

“Ye’ve done a lot to annoy me,  _ Twisted Fate. _ ” He croons, lowering himself before the disciple to grab his jaw. A pretty thing, he was — bright teal eyes, long eyelashes, sharp features. Gangplank will  _ relish _ in watching the pain and fear fill those eyes. Twisted Fate wrenches his face out of Gangplank’s grip which only results in the crew pulling tighter on his braids. He inhales sharply and Gangplank is sure it won’t be the last time. He turns to another crewmate, hand outstretched.

“It's time you learned ‘yer place, child. No longer in y’sweet mum’s henhouse, are ye?” He says. The crewmate dashes to the stern, where a long, horrifically thick whip is hung. He places the weapon in Gangplank’s grasp, and the familiar weight only fuels the fire in his gut. When he turns back to Twisted Fate, he finally sees it — a little twinge of fear, smaller than a dying candle, but it’s  _ there. _ He laughs, oh does he  _ laugh _ at Twisted Fate’s fear. 

“I think forty lashings are reasonable, for a message to send back to Buhru.” Gangplank says. The crew guffaws, claps, cheers for the excuse to watch gruesome violence. Gangplank sighs, letting the cries fill him more, more, more— “Alright, lads. Turn him ‘round. Get that shirt off.”

The crew obeys as always, hoisting Twisted Fate’s long frame upwards before forcing him back down, his back facing Gangplank. One takes a short knife and rips up his dark green shirt, and the gold bits on the leather fall to the ground heavily. Twisted Fate’s back is smooth, like calm waters, and the lean muscles in his back ripple as he tenses for the pain. He’s breather harder, too — another sign of fear and anticipation of the pain.  _ Yes, _ he thinks.  _ Let that fear fill you and break that antagonizing facade.  _ Twisted Fate is shackled up to a part of the mast, and he hangs there like a slab of meat waiting to be carved. An accurate metaphor.

The whip is raised above Gangplank’s head, ready to cut that pretty boy’s back to ribbons, and all he can think about is the blood on the bow of his ship, the agonized cry of this pathetic child, having dared climb aboard his ship before they docked off forever —

_ “NO!” _

Gangplank halts, that fire growing cold. That was a voice he knew. A voice among his own men. He turns, and everyone follows his gaze. All eyes are drawn to Malcolm Graves. The young cabin boy seems stricken with his own anger and desperation, far more of an open book compared to the prisoner. Graves’ hands are closed into tight fists, his eyes are heated, and his body has tensed, ready to fight. At everyone’s gaze, he tenses more, as though prepared for a ship wide brawl.  But nobody moves. Nobody breathes. Even Twisted Fate has lifted his head in surprise. 

“...No?” Gangplank’s voice is deathly calm, and he lowers the whip. Graves stands his ground, foolish boy, but says nothing. “Did I… hear ye’ right, boy?” 

Graves is breathing hard, and he glances at Twisted Fate. Gangplank watches them quietly, his fury building up again slowly, and notices little things. Only now does Twisted Fate look truly afraid, and Graves looks slightly afraid as well. Twisted Fate knows what breaking his captain’s wishes would bring, and Graves knows it too. It dawns on Gangplank exactly why the disciple and the cabin boy were caught together.

He chuckles lowly. How ironic — the child of his lover, caught in a torrid affair upon the high seas with a member of Gangplank’s own ship. History dares repeat itself in the most cruel of ways.

If he could not love a child of Nagakabouros, then why should Malcolm?

“Well, then…” He says. Still calm, still deadly. Twisted Fate and Graves both turn to look at him, like frightened children. He waves Graves closer and holds out the handle of the whip. “If you’re so against me doin’ it, then I suppose you want to instead.”

“Malcolm—” Twisted Fate starts, but a pirate’s boot in his back cuts him off. Graves lurches forward, like he’s rooted to the spot, before numbly taking the whip in his hands. His dark eyes meet Gangplank’s, and the fire in Graves is quelled by that of his captain’s.

“Forty. Lashes.” Gangplank says, and even with the roar of the ocean he knows Graves can hear him all too well. He drops the whip and lets Graves take proper hold of it before stepping back and motioning towards Twisted Fate.

“I’d like to drop your alley whore off back home sooner rather than later, Graves.” He says, a canary-eater’s smile on his face. “Get working.”

He steps back and watches, arms crossed, as the most terrific scene of lover’s quarrell folds out on his very own ship.

Graves’ back is to him, but even so he can imagine his face. That thick browline creased, his constant scowl softened into a grimace of regret as he watches the back of his lover bent, shaking in the cold air on the ship. His hands run over the whip, hesitating, waiting, maybe thinking it was a dream. He reels back, and his poor arms are  _ shaking, _ the poor man. Gangplank tuts. 

“Love hurts, Malcolm.” He calls, and Graves’ arm is still in the air. “Take this as an example of that.”

Graves hunches slightly before his shoulders flex and his biceps strain as he brings the whip down, whistling through the air, cracking and splitting the once butter-soft skin on Twisted Fate’s back. Twisted Fate gasps, arching his back, and the first layer of skin is broken. He’s not hitting him hard enough to bleed, but it won’t matter by the time ten or so repetitions have been given. Graves hits him again and gets a whimper at the end of Twisted Fate’s gasp, and Gangplank can only laugh.

“Now I see why you liked ‘im so much, if he makes sounds like that!” He calls, and many other shiphands laugh as well. Graves’ ears and shoulders turn red with the burn of humiliation, and Gangplank is sure Twisted Fate would be ashamed if he were not deafened by the growing pain in his back.

Another lash. Another. A third. That’s five now, and Twisted Fate has still not said a word. A sixth lashing. Soon comes ten. He’s shaking as the hot blood on his back mixes with the open wounds on his back and it must sting, but he still hasn’t given them anything more than a whimper. Gangplank taps his foot impatiently, and Graves’ swings only get weaker. 

“Hit him harder, Graves.” He says coldly. “I’m sure he’s the type to like that.”

Another round of laughter, and finally a shudder comes from Twisted Fate — a tell-tale sign of tears. He’s quiet about it, at least, but the humiliation still brings him a great satisfaction. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Graves is picking up speed and aggression now, and Gangplank realizes he is unintentionally taking his anger and shame out on his poor companion. He laughs harder, louder, and the crew follows suit. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Twisted Fate is crying out now, vocally, but still no pleas for mercy or a ceasefire. No apologies. No begging. Nothing but sounds. Graves’ speed only picks up as though he can’t hear Twisted Fate, and Gangplank theorizes it’s that damn tunnel vision men get when they’re angry. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. More than halfway through and Graves still hasn’t hesitated, Twisted Fate still has not called out. It’s frustrating, but Gangplank supposes he can only wish for so much gratification. Twisted Fate’s back is torn to pieces, and the blood stains his pants and sticks his long braids together, pools down onto the deck, fills the cracks between the wood boards. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. T-Twenty-nine. Graves hesitates on that lashing. Maybe an inkling of regret fills him as he spills his beloved’s blood. But weakness is not tolerated on this ship. Mercy is not an option. 

Thirty.

“Ma--Mal—” Twisted Fate cries, his skinny hands curled into fists above his head, his shoulders hunched. Upon the thirty-first lashing he gasps, and is too breathless from the pain to continue his statement.

Good enough. 

Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four. Twisted Fate is losing consciousness from the pain and blood loss, as he is no longer vocalizing anything. He is limp in the chains aside from the occasional twitch. Thirty-five. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine.

Forty.

Graves drops the whip, and it’s like watching the sun being swallowed by the sea at dusk; he crumbles with the weight of his actions. He stumbles forward and kneels before Twisted Fate, undeterred by the blood staining his boots and pants. He places a hand on the quivering back. Twisted Fate flinches. Graves mumbles something to him, probably a useless apology. A deckhand moves to force them apart, but Gangplank holds up a hand. 

“Let ‘em.” He says. “This’s the last time they’re gon’ see each other, anyway. We’re setting sail once we throw Malcolm’s beau off at the Buhru temple.”

Malcolm turns, and the pure fury in his eyes doesn’t surprise nor intimidate Gangplank. He easily grins and folds his hands behind his back.

“That means  _ everyone _ , Graves. Don’t think deserters get any better punishment than stowaways.”

Graves moves as though to launch at Gangplank, but a protesting groan from Twisted Fate stops him. Reluctantly, he returns to Twisted Fate’s side, cradling him by the shoulder. They mumble to each other, and it seems Twisted Fate makes a joke because Graves gives him a sad smile and laugh. Twisted Fate’s shivering body almost seems to melt in his hold. The crew disperses to continue their duties, but Gangplank stays. Watches. 

The scene is all too familiar. 

He supposes if he were forced to punish Illaoi so harshly, he’d react similarly. 

“Get yer’ goodbyes over with, lovebirds. Make ‘em good.” He orders, before turning on his heel and heading back to his quarters. The door slams behind him, and that is the last the crew sees of him for the rest of the evening. 

As the body on the deck continues to bleed, so does the cruel captain’s heart.

He’ll do well to leave both behind in Bilgewater.


	2. The Poor Man's Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you guys asked for more so.   
> here's more.

Everything burns. Red, yellow, brown, green— the colors of agony and decay swamp Twisted Fate’s vision as he sits curled over on the deck of the Dead Pool. He’s passed out a few times already; the rocking of the boat as it sets course for the Buhru Temple sends Fate reeling a few times. The nauseating anguish rippling through his body is indescribable, both physical and emotional. The thick scars make him feel like a ripped piece of linen, ready to fall apart at the seams. He doesn’t want to think about the blood soaking through his pants, or the way he can feel his skin splitting nearly to the bone. It’s hard enough to breathe as is; thinking about what he must look like makes him want to vomit. 

Though his back stings like acid, the heat under his skin leaking out in the most terrible fashion, the warmth of the hands on his shivering shoulders is unmatched by anything he’s felt before, and may feel after. He lurches forward during a particularly bad wave, threatening to heave onto the deck, and still Graves steadies him. Fate wants nothing more than to lean back, rest his head in the crook of Graves’ neck, to let the cold sweat and fear be washed away by the raw emotion Fate can almost feel within him. 

Malcolm’s so upset he’s shaking, and it’s one of the only sensations keeping Fate from blacking out entirely. He leans his head back against Graves’ shoulder, with a shuddering breath. Everything hurts. His heart aches. His body hurts. His eyes sting. His head is swimming. He croaks out Malcolm’s name, which earns him a stern, strong hand cupping his head. Graves doesn’t seem to mind the thick sheen of sweat covering Fate’s forehead, nor does Fate comment on the quivering in Graves’ shoulders. Beneath the pain and seasickness, a deafening roar of rage swims in Fate’s core. Because of him, Graves had been punished — overlooking the fact that Fate’s body is never going to recover from this, will Graves ever let it go? It wasn’t his fault. 

A pair of boots clunk in front of Fate’s face, and though he could barely see past the sweat and tears, he knows exactly who they belong to. He does not raise his head, but he practically feels Graves bristle at the sight.   
Speak of the Devil, and He shall appear…

“If’ye ain’t the cutest pair the sea’s ever known,” Gangplank says, the rotten-tooth grin evident in his voice. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Neither man makes a vocal response, but Graves does attempt to pull Fate closer to his body. Fate fights another thick swell of nausea, enough to force a hand between his and Graves’ body to hold him upright. Graves retracts like a startled animal, before slowly returning a hand to Fate’s bony elbow.

Gangplank huffs, clearly unimpressed. Fate watches the toes of his boots shift to point outward.

_ Duck footed bitch. _

“So protective, Malcolm,” Gangplank is trying to get a rise out of Graves, and while Fate hopes it doesn’t inflame the situation further, he knows Graves too well to be prepared for anything else but another fight. 

Graves says nothing, still, but his hatred burns under his skin. Fate lays a hand on his knee in an attempt to soothe him. 

The captain clucks above them, before shoving his scabbard under Fate’s chin. Fate is careful enough to not tense against the blade, but Graves is not so ready; he attempts to lurch Fate’s weakened body backwards, which sends a furtive shot of sickness through his companion. Fate gasps and heaves as the blistering pain in his body seems to scream at and consume his nerves in an onslaught of suffering. Gangplank gives him no rest, and uses the flat of his sabre to tilt Fate’s exhausted head upwards. The gold and jade beads in Fate’s braids scrape against the metal of the sword, creating an agonizing cacophony to Fate’s sensitive head. He’s forced to close his eyes as the whitish-grey light from the cloudy sky only worsens his migraine. 

Besides, he’s sure if he looks upon Gangplank’s mug, he’s sure to vomit for real. 

“Come now, Twisted Fate. Don’t look so glum.” Gangplank guffaws, which echoes against Fate’s aching ears. “After all, ‘m not makin’ ye  _ swim _ back to Bilgewater, am I?”

Still no answer. 

“Tcheh, yer such’n ingrate…” Gangplank says, and Fate hears his books walk away slowly like a vulture hovering above a carcass (not that he’s much more than that at this point). The sound of the deck below Gangplank’s heavy feet, though irritating to Fate, is definitely a comfort. Even if he is to bleed half to death on the dreaded Captain’s boat, at least he could do it in peace with--

He doesn’t have any time to recognize the lack of footsteps before a heel is kicked into his ribbon-slashed back. It pushes Fate over the edge — he spits up only what his empty stomach can produce, frothy and white and weightless, before tilting to the side only to be caught by Graves’ arms and lap. Graves, like Fate, is beyond words at this point. He heaves against Graves’ body, now only offering hot air and soft whimpers of pain that are lost to the waves lapping noisily at the hull. Graves is barely holding himself back now, holding on so tightly to Fate’s arms that he fears his bones make shatter. Graves rocks back and forth where he kneels, clearly deciding whether to launch himself at Gangplank’s throat, or to stay by Fate’s side. He begins to lean away, and that small distance made — a centimeter, maybe two — immediately washes a cold wind over Fate. Despite his agony, he moves with Malcolm, feeling his pores scream as they are stretched to their weakened limit. 

He hisses Graves’ name, which locks the man in place. The hands immediately grow gentler, softer, and pull Fate closer into his arms. The warmth returns, the loving warmth and the safe warmth, away from the acidic arson threatening to pull him under. Fate forces himself to sit up, with Graves’ aid, and leans his sweaty forehead against Graves’ shoulder. He’s still shaking, but Fate can no longer decipher if it is rage or fear for his own safety. One of his broad hands reaches up and cups the back of Fate’s head, pressing him closer, supporting nearly all his weight. 

The footsteps pick up again, and this time they fade past recognition. Fate allows his body to go slack, riding the pain out in the old fashioned way. If he were a more foolish man, he would think the salty sea spray was Nagakabouros’ way of kissing his wounds and attempting to comfort him. But he knows better — he knows going after what he desires is what he is meant to do. The consequences were worth the cost, for the most part.

After all, this is going to be the last time he sees Graves. 

His eyes sting and he somehow convinces himself that it’s access spray from the ocean. 

“I could kill’m,” Graves growls, nearly out of nowhere. Fate shifts to acknowledge his statement. “I could do it an’ I’m sure it’d be appreciated by at least a few of his men.”

Fate wants to say it’s foolhardy and dumb, he’d never win the fight, don’t be stupid, and other words that would shut Graves down and keep him nearby. The bitter feeling that these are their last moments together threatens to overwhelm the pain in his physical body — the knowledge that he is never going to see Malcolm again is going to tear him asunder if he has to think about it anymore. 

“Just…” Fate forces his chattering teeth to work against the instincts that keep them from cooperating.. “Stay.”

“But he’s—”

“Please.”

He can’t even bear to look up. Everything Gangplank had said was right. Lovebirds being forced apart. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Fate reflects on how lovebirds can die without their partner. 

He doesn’t like the intuition that says he isn’t much better. 

Graves is silent for a moment more. He then shifts his body to fit against Fate’s form, pulling him between his legs and pressing Fate’s torso against his own. Fate can feel his open wounds bleed into Graves’ rain-and-ocean soaked shirt, and he’s sure it’s uncomfortable. He also knows Graves can feel the tears on his shoulder, just as Fate can feel the tears being pressed into his hairline. 

“‘M gonna miss you.” Fate admits, distant, exhausted. The energy his body is consuming at this moment to heal is quickly sapping his ability to stay conscious. He laughs, weakly. “Come visit me when you’ve got your own… ship, and crew, and… all’at.”

Graves still says nothing, instead opting to fiddle with the gold clasps in Fate’s braided hair. 

“Malcolm?” he asks again, his unsteady hand falling against Graves’ stomach, against toned muscle and scarred skin. It trails, listless, to his hip bone, then back to his naval, traveling that familiar circle over, and over, and over, and over...and over...and over…

Graves says something and Fate’s past the point of real comprehension, so he just laughs; delighted to hear Graves’ voice; delighted to be near him; horrified that he will never hear that tongue say his name ever again; horrified that this is the final time these hands will hold him. He shudders out a half-coherent sob, ducking into Graves’ nape. The world is cloudy. Graves is even feeling fuzzy, uncertain, as is the sound of the ocean and the throbbing pain in his back. It’s all distant. Foggy. Far away. 

“Tobias?”

Fate exhales slowly, inhales slowly, as his eyes close slowly. 

“Tobias, please, just… stay awake.”

Is he dying? Is this what’s going on?

“Tobias, come on,”

The voice is so far, but so loving, so emotional, it’s the same feeling one has when standing in sunlight after years of rainfall. Sleet passes into blue skies. The gray fades to black.

“Tobias…?”

Malcolm.

Malcolm…

_ Malcolm.  _

 

—

 

He awakes as slowly as he had fallen asleep, the black fading to gray, then to pale green, then to emerald. The cloudy sky watches him through the familiar stone doorway to his balcony. The rain patters against the closed, warped windowpane, a sickening rhythm that he’s far memorized by now. 

The pillow under his head and the thin bed under his body are cold. He’s cold. The room is cold, the world is cold, the sky is cold. But without even turning around and inspecting his environment, he knows he is not alone. 

If only he could have stayed asleep. 

Lethargic, he reaches a hand around to feel his back. It is freshly wrapped in dry, unmoving gauze, and the rivers of blood on his back have long been dry and silenced. 

He’d immediately trade the lack of pain for this terrible, aching coldness any day. 

He curls in tighter on himself, ignoring the dull ache his back protests with. His knees are brought, painfully, to his chest. He doesn’t care who sees. He doesn’t care that whoever’s in this room has been watching him, silently, since before he woke up. 

Illaoi shifts where she was standing, also uncaring that she has been discovered. 

“I assume that it did not go well.” she says. 

No response.

“Anahera patched up your wounds,” Illaoi continues. “In case you wished to thank her for not letting you die on our doorstep.”

Still, silence is met. Fate hears her tut. 

“For all it is worth, my child,” she persists, though her voice and her presence are moving to the end of the room, away from Fate’s bed. “I am glad you’re not dead.”

Finally, Fate makes a sound — a scoff, sardonic and biting. Illaoi is now the one without a response. She knows well that there is no reasoning with Fate at this point.

The door closes behind her. 

And the rain outside continues to pour, as it mocking Fate’s attempts to change what had been done. 

Destiny is not changeable, it sings — nor is your luck.


End file.
